Page 62 of Icing on the Cake

When Gerard unleashes a slapshot, it’s a cannon going off. The puck rockets off his stick with a superhuman force, propelled by his hands’ immense power and strength. It’s a sight to behold, and it never fails to leave the crowd—and me!—gasping in amazement.

3. Gentle Giant

The most impressive thing about Gerard’s hands, gloved or not, is that they’re also instruments of kindness and compassion. Whether he’s patting a teammate on the rear after a goal—yes, boys and girls, he gives as good as he gets in the butt-pat department—or signing autographs for young fans with practiced ease, Gerard’s hands are always giving.

He’s the kind of guy who’s always ready with a friendly wave, a warm handshake, or an enthusiastic high-five.

It’s this generosity of spirit that makes Gerard so beloved, not just by his teammates but by the entire Barracudas fanbase. His hands are a perfect reflection of the man himself: big, strong, and endlessly giving.

It’s no wonder that his fans—and even your humble Ice Queen—can’t get enough.

4. Size Matters

Now, let’s not tiptoe around the bush. We’re all adults here. We know what they say about men with large hands. And while I can’t confirm or deny the validity of such claims regarding Gerard, I will say that I have no doubt he knows how to handle his…stick.

So, there you have it. A deep dive into one of the more tantalizing parts of Gerard Gunnarson’s anatomy that’s right up there with his hockey butt.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to ice my hands after all this typing!

Until next time.

Ice Queen skating off!

13

GERARD

Give her a round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, because the Ice Queen has outdone herself.

After texting Oliver to let him know I’d be skipping class, I ran back to the Hockey House to get my car. As I drove down the road to a small deli that I loved, my phone blew up with notifications.

I parked my car and unlocked my phone to see a flood of notifications from people sending me links to the latest post from the Ice Queen. And because curiosity killed the cat, I clicked on one.

But boy, did satisfaction bring me back. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything as hot as what the Ice Queen wrote about my hands. And that’s saying something because the one about my butt was filthy with a capital F.

I slip my phone into my pocket and get out of the car. The deli is a hole-in-the-wall place called Sally’s, tucked away in a strip mall just off campus. I discovered it freshman year when Drew and I got lost looking for the post office.

We never did find the post office, but discovering Aunt Sally’s was a way bigger win.

The place has an old-school charm, with its checkeredtablecloths and faded pictures of what I assume are various Sallys throughout the years. It’s never too crowded, which is surprising given how ridiculously good the food is. Maybe it’s because most students stick to the dining hall or the chain places downtown. Their loss.

A bell above the door jingles when I walk in, and the smell of cured meats and fresh bread wraps me in a warm hug. I get in line behind an older guy in a Bruins jacket and start thinking about what to order.

Everything here is massive and loaded with flavor, and the best way to describe it is a culinary punch to the face. The meatball subs are legendary, dripping with marinara and enough mozzarella to strangle a small horse. The pastrami on rye is stacked so high you need a game plan to tackle it. And don’t even get me started on the pickles. They’re green spears of joy.

I love this place because it feels like a mini-vacation from campus life. Eating here reminds me of sitting in someone’s grandma’s kitchen—if that grandma was Italian and ran a badass sandwich shop.

Plus, the food has this magical quality where no matter how much you eat, you never feel gross afterward. You’re simply happy and full, like a well-fed puppy.

The guy in front of me finishes relaying his order, and I step up to the counter. A girl with purple hair and a nose ring asks what I want.

“I’ll take two turkey clubs with extra bacon.” As she punches it into the register, my stomach growls, and I rethink my order. “You know what? Make it three.”

She shrugs, adds the extra food, and swipes my card.

I take a seat by the window and pull out my phone again. The screen is still lit up with notifications about the blog post. Part of me wants to read it again, but another part—probably the smarter part—knows that could be dangerous. Instead, I log into one of my social media apps and scroll through my feed.

Oliver posted a video from last night’s practice where he deked out three guys before roofing it top shelf.

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